


Grab My Hand and Lead Me

by PhoenixUnknown



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Light Bondage, M/M, Multi, Panic boners, Ward/Francel, black mail, borderline non-con, dom/sub elements, dub-con, not so much implied as it's actually used, please don't access this document if you have problems with actual dub-con, probably a 12 page masturbatory fantasy, seriously, slow-burn porn, very dubious
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-07-24 15:28:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7513490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixUnknown/pseuds/PhoenixUnknown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'...and then Ser Zephirin steps forward, holding himself with such natural regality--he eyes Francel from head to toe before locking his icy gaze on Francel’s frightened blue eyes. His voice is gentle, however- suggesting and guiding rather than commanding.</p><p>“Kneel.” '</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Never Promised You

**Author's Note:**

> [[ What started as a story told to me by a dear friend to make a bad day better--I liked it so much I just had to flesh it out; thus this monster was born. Seriously, stay away if it's not your particular cup of tea. It is gratuitously described, pretty unadulterated, and very maturely rated. It is sex galore, basically the only thing I can write so if it's your deal--I hope and believe you will enjoy it in its entirety. 
> 
> Happy sin-day my friends. And stay tuned for more in the upcoming days. 
> 
> Special thanks to tuhis for giving this to me!~ <3 Don't forget to go check out their works here, on Ao3 and also on tumblr under the same penname! for fantastic art and drabbles! 
> 
> Please do not forget to leave a short review unless you have nothing good or nice to say-and a kudos to let me know about any grammar I missed and how I did as well as any ideas I might be able to incorporate. The story is already drafted out but there is wiggle room and I love ideas. 
> 
> Thank you for your time and checking this story out! Without further ado--please enjoy the story! ]]

          They find him at the Vault, sitting sedately in the foremost pew. Francel de Haillenarte with his elbows on his knees and hunched forward over his clasped hands. A prayer. Who is it that stumbles upon this scene, but none other than two members of the Righteous Heavensward; an oddly quiet Ser Grinnaux, a sickly sweet smiling Ser Charibert beside him. 

          “You are to come with us, for Halone wills it so.” Ser Charibert holds out his hand in a brief beckoning gesture. 

          Francel has stood and come around the pew that he might stand before them, bowing with his hat clutched against his breast respectfully. Unquestioningly he does follow them. (No one in their right mind is going to question both Ser Charibert and Grinnaux.) With his posture obviously submissive; head ducked and shoulders pulled inwards-- he trails with all kinds of ideas and worries swirling in his head. The thought that he may be in trouble is further enforced in him when they lead him through endless twisting and turning halls. However, the path does not take him downwards where the dungeons would be, so he is not with the instant assumption that he’ll be, for example, brutally beaten. 

          So far away in his own little world of worry, he only notices the close of a heavy steel door behind him when it’s far too late to do anything about it. Francel’s blood runs cold when he looks up; there stands the rest of the Heavensward in it’s entirety. He steps back in surprise even as his heart falls into his gut, his back bumping against Grinnaux’s chest. ‘Tch…’ Grinnaux grunts, and Francel is quick to turn and apologize to him fearfully and most quickly before he must return his eyes to the rest and address them.

 

          “If I have done aught to offend my lords, I should like to know.” 

 

          “You are not in trouble.” 

 

          “Dear Joacin… Charlemend… Francel de Haillenarte…” Such soft, and carefull pronunciation with stress on each syllable.

 

          “You are the prime example of a faithful, Fury-fearing Ishgardian in the service of Halone.”

 

          “And as such, you have nothing to fear…”

 

          “We are simply concerned that the company you keep may not be the most beneficial influence for such a pious man.”

 

          Francel is startled and, even a little offended. He has a brief moment of courage though it is polite. “Nay my lords, if you would forgive my forthrightness… Lord Haurchefant is a good man and were it not for him I should have perished long ago. And his friend! They saved me ‘ere I could be dashed to pieces, long forgotten at the bottom of a cliff!”

 

          “Tch, so quick to defend…”

 

          “Nay, we must give our commendations, for caring for the well-being of  _ our _ example of devotion...”

 

          “But our concern remains that they should plant the seed of doubt in you… Lead you astray from the narrow path…”

 

          The circle is closing and Francel is cornered. Hands press onto his shoulders should he try and step backwards further. His hands worry at the hat he’s kept clutched near to him, barely able to lean back for the creeping fear in him since it’s all he can do within their hold. The voices around him nameless as he is overwhelmed by their very words.

 

          “I swear it that never have I strayed from the path or questioned the Fury under anyone's urging. Ever will I serve the Holy See and reunite with my brother in Her halls whence my time comes.”

 

          The hat is pulled away from him to cease his fidgeting with it. 

 

          “Ah but Francel; so says every other heretic in the loving hands of Ser Charibert.” 

 

          “We would have you swear your obedience with deeds, rather than words…” Ser Haumeric uncorks a bottle and holds it out to Francel. “Drink this.”

 

          “If you are as true in your faith as you claim, there is nothing you need fear from us.”

 

          “And that includes Grinnaux and Charibert~.” Is sweetly chimed in.

 

          But oh how the poor rose’s eyes seem to prickle wetly at once more being doubted in his sincerity. Nevertheless, he takes the potion bottle. “A truth serum? You’ll hear naught remiss, the Fury guides my tongue…” The lip of the bottle pauses against his lips, hurt washes over him one more time before he tilts his head back and the liquid hits the back of his throat. However, something wasn’t right--the bottle drops to the floor as Francel stumbles backwards a few paces, holding his throat. So cold was this concoction that it  _ burned;  _ he hunches over forward, fearful of it. 

          A pair of large, strong hands catch him by the shoulders and straighten his posture; Ser Ignasse looks him in the eye as Haumeric picks up the fallen bottle and takes it away. 

 

          “A truth serum? Of sorts, yes!” He laughs. 

 

          “For no falsehoods shall leave your lips,” adds the voice of Ser Noudenet. 

 

          “But neither will words of truth!” adds a peculiarly grinning Ser Guerrique. 

 

          A silencing potion! Francel tries to utter something, tries to ask them  _ why _ , and he looks up to them, his blue eyes wide and turn to those who have yet to speak to him. To Adelphel, to Janlenoux beside him. He cannot question them, cannot ask them for aid. To noble Lord Zephirin, their Archimandrite--

 

          Ser Adelphel comes to him, wipes a stray drop of potion from his chin with all gentility and smiles at him with such radiance it burns him with the words he then speaks.

 

          “As we have said, put your faith in the Fury and you needn’t fear.”

 

          “Obey and serve as She bids, and the sooner you will have us convinced of this. Resist, and this will take just as long as it needs to,” Continues Janlenoux. 

 

          Oh how cornered and  how weak he felt now. The cold that was running through his body, the cold of fear no matter that they say he shouldn’t fear them. Francel finds no comfort in either of them, least of all their Archimandrite; and then Ser Zephirin steps forward, holding himself with such natural regality--he eyes Francel from head to toe before locking his icy gaze on Francel’s frightened blue eyes. His voice is gentle, however- suggesting and guiding rather than commanding.

 

          “Kneel.”

 

          The hands that hold him easily let him go as he drops to a knee and bows his head in easy supplication. Francel did not understand what prompted him to display so openly his obedience, why had he knelt so easily? Ser Zephirin did not have an impressive stature, but he carried about him something so dominant and his very presence was commanding--Francel was not impervious to the effect that demeanor had. More than anything he wanted to prove his innocence and avoid conflict; but as he heard the hum of approval from around the Knights, something in him told him there would be no conflict. White plated boots step into his field of vision, a gloved hand strokes his hair gently a few times before reaching beneath to his chin to tilt his face upwards. Zephirin is smiling just slightly.

 

          “The Fury sees your heart, nothing will stay hidden from Her eyes.”

 

          Then, there is a hand at the back of Francel’s head and Zephirin’s mouth is firmly on his. Francel jerks, and it takes all of his willpower and the reminder of the hand in his hair that stops him from completely jerking backwards. Although his body was still, his mouth did not move, and the worst did not come to mind; only confused on how this would prove his innocence and what surely the other members must think of him now. It never came to mind that they could be fellow orchestrators.

          Zephirin kisses Francel fervently, even laps at the seam of his lips but his tongue does not seek a way within as Francel remains still and unresponsive. He pulls away gently and speaks just as soft.

 

          “You are doing well so far,” he says as his hands slip down to the collar of Francel’s bliaud, and he frowns slightly. “Remove this, would you?” 

 

          His lips move in a prayer to Halone to grant him strength even whilst he hangs his head and his long fingers pull out the ties holding the bliaud together. His cheeks burn a vibrant red at all the eyes trained solely on him as he next works at the clasps of the vest beneath until he can shrug both of these things to the ground; and all that remains is a fitted cotton button up. The clothes that he sheds are taken away; Ser Adelphel folds them neatly and places them on a chair by the door. Zephirin stands up. Ser Guerrique tugs at the shoulder of Francel’s cotton shirt.

 

          “That as well if you would like to keep it intact. 

 

          Guerrique’s hand gets practically slapped away by someone else, however. “Watch your tone or remove thyself.” Ser Noudenet sounds strict. 

 

          Francel’s shoulders hunch forward some, the young lord seems to bow again as his hands come to grip the collar of his shirt. His mind races; were they searching him personally for draconian artefacts? Zephirin’s kiss said otherwise… Still, he knew what was expected and hanging silent in the air; and oh how he trembled and would not look at them as his fingers raced down the ivory buttons. He shrugged it off with a roll of his shoulders, and this time handed it to Adelphel who he averted his eyes from and to the ground. His skin was pale as the Coerthan climes only allowed, he remained minimally blemished and scarred but for a nick here and there from childhood romps. 

 

          The Knights eye Francel’s exposed upper body.

 

          “No marks of battle on him, tch.” 

 

          “You know you cannot make knight of every man, better he knows from the start he would be a waste of resources in trainin’.”

 

          “Ah, but is it not House Haillenarte that provides shelter and succor to those whose homes and families go under dravanian fire?” Charibert’s pronunciation of the family name was somewhat off-key and it sounded more like ‘healin’-art’.

 

          “To faithful and unbeliever alike, I’d wager.”

 

          As Francel’s head is bowed, a hand--Ignasse’s hand strokes the exposed nape.

 

          “I see none draconian contreband here,’ he voices his observation aloud, ‘not that we suspected you so far astray, boy. Keep it this way.” 

 

          Francel has lifted his head just enough to see them now, his mouth opens as though he desires nothing more than to speak; but as nothing comes forth he is successfully cowed and bows forward again. His head dips low to hide the frustration at being unable to defend himself, his friends and his house--above all else was a hard medicine to swallow. Instead all that he could do to show his ire was to flinch away from Ignasse’s touch at the delicate skin of his nape. Francel put himself down on both knees now, one hand on the stone, the other across his thighs, his head is bowed and his shoulders hunched low.

 

          “That is right,’ speaks Haumeric, ‘no truth nor lies off your lips, for Halone knows your heart.”

 

          The hand that Francel flinches away from does not go far, it returns to his head and there are fingers threading into his blond locks and making a fist-a grip that does not pull per se, but would likely hurt should Francel try and pull away. And on his other side where Ser Charibert stands, there is a brush of robe fabric against Francel, and then an obtrusive mouth is on his nape, the tongue scalding hot, and use of teeth entirely too liberal.  On instinct Francel tries to press his cheek to his shoulder to ward away the sudden assault. With a gasp, his head is tugged back the opposite way instead--towards where the hand in his hair belongs to. His neck is left further exposed for more teeth and soon that mouth is attached to the succulent skin and sucking and biting for the brightest mark to muster.  Francel almost withers completely to the ground when his elbow quivers. He does not by a miracle. He covers his mouth with the hand from his lap as though any such sound he could possibly make might betray him in his state. He turns his pleading eyes on Noudenet, the only one who had demanded honor and gentility be dealt to him. It was so hard to have faith in what they said, and not just because these actions were not condemned, they were not condoned either. He could only try and twist and turn, clutch with the hand that had muffled his breathing into the hot and stifling robe pressed against his hot skin. 

 

          The pleading look had not been wasted on Noudenet. 

 

          “Enough, Charibert. That will last long enough on him.”

 

          Ser Charibert nipped at the bruising spot forming on Francel’s neck one more time, then let out a whimper as someone pulled him back; likely by ponytail. A look of relief is all he is able to offer Noudenet, never mind that his reprieve was short.

 

          “Get him up on his feet.”Instructs Zephirin, and it is Janlenoux and Grinnaux who grasp Francel by the upper arms and pull his weight off his knees. 

 

          “--and cover up that bite mark,”

 

          Which is done with a wide, padded, leather collar. It, as well as the hands fastening it, stay below his line of sight, and it is quickly on. A small click of a lock secures it in place, all he can do is touch it softly with his fingers in disbelief before curling them around the collar. He holds it as though too close to his throat and it would surely cut off his air; but he knows better than to pull on it. Ser Zephirin hooks a finger through the steel ring in the front. His heart thuds fast and hard, almost stopping when the collar had snapped around his throat.

 

          “Have no fear pet, heretics get unpadded ones.” 

 

          Francel’s glistening eyes fall away from looking at the commander, those words bring him no comfort and do not ease him in the least. Hurt wells up within those sweet blue orbs before he bows his head low; so they hold him barely above the heretics? Francel shivers involuntarily, those words, this collar, the cold…

 

          Ser Zephirin steps back and Ser Adelphel takes his place. He looks notably more radiant as he’s removed his armor; where were gleaming white pauldrons, chestplate, and tassets a moment back, there is a layer of simple but soft black clothing. His sabatons however have stayed in place. The other plate clad knights are making similar motions; helping one another remove the bright plate armor or ornate robes. Adelphel is less an intimidating man and enough of a distraction that he does not watch or seem to notice too much that the other Knights are dressing down; for Adelphel looks so gently and brightly at him that he almost felt hopeful. Adelphel takes Francel’s wrists ever so gently and moves his hands away from the collar, and the two knights still holding Francel by the upper arms pull his hands down now, and pin them to his sides as well. And then, he in turns claims Francel’s mouth with his own now, slowly sliding his hands from over Francel’s shoulders and collarbone, over his chest and then downwards to rest them at last on his waist. Francel’s hope died in the back of his throat with that sweet kiss in the form of a gasp. He cannot move for the powerful Knights holding him firmly in place though his arms do try; twisting his wrists and pulling his shoulders back some. The skin that Adelphel touches quivers as the muscles contract at so intimate a touch, goosebumps rise shortly after. The hands holding his arms to his side slowly begin to slide up and down them. Francel does not pull away at the faux comfort. 

          Adelphel’s kisses are soft--sweet, and he presses himself close against Francel.  His lips seem to linger on Francel’s for an eternity. When he pulls away, the hands at Francel’s hips begin to finger the waistline of his breeches. Francel cannot recall when he had closed his eyes...

 

          “Are you cold, little rose?” He smiles angelically, and Francel slowly opens his eyes to regard the unabashed man. Blushing clear to the tips of his ears at the petname. “Do not fret, you’ll be warm soon-” he shoots a sideways glare at a grinning Charibert and mutters, “not you” before slowly bringing a hand to the front of Francel’s breeches and undoes the lacing singlehandedly. “These would have to be put aside, too. It will spare you a mess to launder.” 

          He tries to move his arms-his hands, but to no avail; he can only tip his head back, eyes squeezed shut and lips tightly sealed. The gaskins fall to his knees with some urging, there are smooth fleece tights beneath that Adephel smiles at. It makes for a nice sight, but these too are pulled down to Francel’s ankles so that he stands in only his small cloths. 

          His adams apple bobs when Adelphel lightly and slowly slides his fingers up Francel’s hips to his waist, and then curves around to his backside. They slowly inch downwards to creep just beneath the hem of the small cloths and press gently at the beginnings of his buttocks. He’s loath to pull away when his fingers stroke over a soft pair of dimples just above that soft bottom. 

 

          “Good, very good… So sweet.”

 

          Adelphel kneels down to pull both gaskins and tights down completely, having to pause to remove Francel’s shoes--Guerrique quickly dipping down to remove the other so they come off almost simultaneously; and Francel is prompted with a gentle nudge to step forward and out of the bunched fabrics at his feet. The only way they know his protests is with his silent refusal to completely cooperate. However, they are firm knights, and even without his aid, easily divest him of his clothes. Adelphel takes them and they join the rest of Francel’s garments whilst Guerrique attaches a chain to the collar. Ser Ignasse rises, and Guerrique gives the chain a gentle tug that pulls Francel forward and into his and Ignasse’s waiting arms; Francel has no idea how eagerly some have been waiting for their turn to hold him until Francel finds his head sandwiched betwixt warm and eager tongues that vulgarly assault his ears, both at once. Their hands wander all over his exposed back and chest but do not so much as move towards the remaining smallclothes. His chilled body is pressed between these two hot chests and his smooth stomach and back is explored with calloused hands that wander and stroke and map his near alabaster skin. Francel’s face burns as his poor, long ears meet warm tongues and are grazed with sharp teeth. His hands have been released but at this point he is no threat; one hand goes up to hold on to the collar while the other presses against Guerrique’s muscled chest as though such weak protestations would make them cease. 

          His head tips back under the pressure of a mouth along his jaw, only a gasp sounding open mouthed from his lips that move but no words tumbling forth. Oh, how often it seems that he tips his head back, face held heavensward like the praying devotee that he was; the two men either grin, or double their advances to have that milky throat bared for them. 

 

          Ser Zephirin smiles. How beautiful the boy is as his eyes turn heavensward, silent prayers forming on his lips. Zephirin too, is divested of his white plate as well, standing comfortable and to the side so that he may see all that goes on, and know all that is to come. Haumeric has brought another potion bottle, and he and Noudenet discuss it with Zephirin in hushed tones--smiles curling on their lips.

 

          Zephirin then comes to Francel, smiles at him from between the two men holding the boy, and places that green, feathered hat back on Francel’s head. 

  
          “There… Much better…” He then signals to the knights. “Pin him down.” 


	2. An Open Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the delicate feast is about to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[ Here is where you get your fair warning; it only gets further depraved from here. If you do not like dubious-consent and all it entails, then this is not the fiction for you and you would be best served to turn around. Dub-con, drug use (aphrodesiacs), probably mild blackmail and thinly veiled threats.  
> Prominent pairs in this chapter remain as;  
> Noudenet/Francel  
> Adelphel/Francel  
> Guerrique/Francel  
> Ignasse/Francel  
> Zephirin/Francel  
> Haurmeric/Francel

          Francel has not a clue about the ongoings around him, he hears his heart pounding in his ears and almost deafening him. There seemed to be a flurry of hands grasping at his waist, pulling him back against a body or forwards against another-Guerrique and Ignasse muddling him well with their lavishing attention. Francel was completely embarrassed--doubly so when the fondles, caresses, and kisses cease and his hazy gaze is met with a confident smirk. No sooner had his hat been smoothed atop his head quite secure when suddenly he was swept up ungracefully with a gasp and by instinct he clutches his arms around powerful shoulders-Ignasse.

          His back meets with a spot cleared just for him; a sheet thrown over the wood of the round table. Each of the knights that had sandwiched him now pinned one wrist above his head, his fair face burned in their clutches and he bent his knees and closed his legs by instinct. Francel’s breath hitched, chest beginning to rapidly rise and fall as Ser Haumeric came to stand by his head. There was a potion within clear view in the other's hand; he turned his head away because of what the last potion he took wilfully had done to him. Ah! There was Noudenet again! The young Haillenarte lord turns pleading blue eyes onto the mage-so hopeful that his silent begging would once more be answered! Alas, the mage only smiled at him, he comes towards the restrained and leans down near to him. Ser Noudenet only smiles and turns Francel’s face forward-his thumb and fingers press into Francel’s cheeks and the pressure makes his jaw open; he then is met with an open mouth kiss that disarms him. Ser Noudenet thus is able to distract Francel with so loving a kiss, tongue softly slipping past those rosy lips as well. More hands than the ones at his shoulders come to pin Francel down; Grinnaux sits on the table and grabs Francel by the knee and pulls one leg into an iron hold onto his lap. Janlenoux pulls the other knee outward as well and pins the thigh with his own knee; Francel’s legs are spread slightly in this manner. Adelphel and Charibert hold his ankles steady. Zephirin and Vellguine hold onto his midsection. Soon Francel finds himself overwhelmed by the Knights all finding a place with which to tightly grab his body. His sinewy form tightens nervously and he tries to bend his knees inwards when pulled every which way and subsequently exposed for all to see.

          Noudenet releases Francel’s lips and caresses his jawline softly. At the touch Francel’s eyes flutter open and he begins to worry at his lips with his teeth when left bereft of Noudenet’s mouth.

 

          “I shan’t lie, this will be unpleasant at first-but nothing we would not do unto ourselves. Please, do try and relax.”

 

          Haumeric dips a gloved finger into the potion and dabs a drop unto Francel’s lips; it immediately brings forth a tingling bloodrush, a burning itch one would want to rub away. It elicits a sudden gasp from the young lord who sucks in his bottom lip to quell the sudden burning; this only makes it spread to his tongue and the roof of his mouth-all a part of the plan. Francel shuts his eyes tight when he wants to call the sensation unpleasant but then realizing that it truly was not so…

          A similar treatment is given to his nipples, the hands all over his body simultaneously tighten when gloved fingers brush the liquid across the little rosy nubs of flesh and nerves. For Francel’s back tries to come off of the table, his mouth curves in a mostly silent cry of surprise. The poor nubs peaking uncomfortably hard and warm; burning and tingling and making his chest pool with heat and his heart pound. Francel cannot stop himself from trying to move his shoulders from their hold, to arch his chest upwards as though seeking for relief.

          Then, Ser Haumeric circles the table at a leisurely stride, his brothers eyes barely flicking to him before going back to the now gently shuddering sight beneath their hands. T’is a sight hard to look away from, after all. Then Haumeric comes to stand between Francel’s thighs, steadies the young man's’ hips with one hand, and then unceremoniously upends the rest of the bottles contents on the front of Francel’s smallclothes.

 

Oh, what a sweet mess it makes.

 

Francel's opened mouth widens in an ‘oh’, eyes flying wide open when they had been closed tight to help him bear this torture. Burning, and itching, blood rushes to his loins and his hips attempt again and again to come off of the table as the liquid permeates his undergarments and begin to set fire to his inner thighs and soon, even the beginnings of his buttocks. Francel’s penis swells almost instantaneously and the wet garment is bulging with the erection defined against the white cloth. His thighs tremble and quake, he tries to jerk his feet away, pull his knees inwards. Anything! Any movement… But their hands are everywhere, holding him down and still, everywhere except where he needed them the most now to be eased.

          His mouth is moving, but there are no words.

 _‘Oh Gods please! Please, please it is too much! Please!’_ Perhaps this can be read from his moving lips whilst he writhes within their hold and his entire body blushes from the pointed tips of his ears, clear to his toes. It is surely a beautiful sight to see; the lord's head is thrown back and his body is trembling and arching for all the strength he can feebly muster.

          The Knights allow many a long minute to pass, simply holding the poor, writhing, young lord down and admiring in delight at his needy agony. To Francel, it was true and pure agony that turned scant minutes of being held down and gazes eating him up into what seemed like hours, or days. Francel burned, he ached and it settled so very deep inside of him.  Ser Haumeric circles the desk again and Ser Noudenet kisses him with sweetness before leaning back down to Francel again and relieving the ache in his red, swollen lips with his own. He was not unresponsive, and he was in fact-quite pliant for his lips did part to receive the kiss; and the fire there eased to a pleasurable tingle that prickled his scalp.

  “The worst is over, boy. How soon it gets better is up to-’ Haumeric looks around, regarding his other brother knights. “Well, more up to us than you, actually…”

          That sounded like Haumeric for what Francel could hear and understand; turning an ear to it-not because he meant to, but because his entire being was simply tuning to the knights around him. His entire body was hyper aware of their presence so close at his side. Ser Zephirin’s hand travels up Francel’s stomach and onto his chest where he brushes over one pink, painfully erect nipple with his thumb. For all Francel knew, (which was not much) his stomach rose to meet the hand which traveled his torso until-Ah! There! The touch to his rosy red nipple made light flash behind his eyes.

 

          “Your body much craves for us to ease your ache, doesn’t it, Francel, hmm?”

 

          That was Zephirin’s voice, low and heady in his ears. Francel’s knuckles turned white as he fists them, trying to pull his thighs together and rub them for relief. He could hardly bear it, his mouth soon going dry as he tries to breathe through it all. Francel turns his head away from where he heard Zephirin to try and hide his face in his shoulder; the brush of his lips against his arm sending palpable shocks down his spine.

          “Ah, ever pious… Wouldn’t admit it, but that most definitely is a ‘yes’.” Zephirin mused aloud, resting his hand on Francel’s chest and rubbing slow circles on that same aching nipple with the pad of his thumb.

          Grinnaux’s hand slipped down to tug at the waistband potion-soaked smallcloths; that would be why the knights kept gloves on thus far and simply had to bear the burn to their mouths when stealing a taste.

          “Ah, I bet this is prolonging the agony,’ Grinnaux’s voice is low and rumbles deeply. ‘So which is it gonna be, boy? Keep this on and hold on to your last shred of decency,” He raised his voice and kept enough pause should Francel choose perhaps to react to the question. “Or lose this and have the only one relieving way out of this; which is our hands all over you and your pious chastity.”

 

          Decency? Decency has long fled him.

 

          “Ha! The Fury’s gonna’ be masturbating to the sight of **you** either way!” Ser Charibert laughs before latching his mouth to the sole of Francel’s foot, his tongue dipping between the curling toes.

          Francel did not even react to the blasphemy Charibert utters; merely jolting at the very thought of being watched and the sensitive tickle of a wet tongue sliding along the arch of his foot… And even still did he arch his chest for the touch that Zephirin withheld from him, straining to no avail--surely if Francel did not choose soon, his body certainly would for him.

          Trembling fingers unfurl that they might search for something-anything that they could latch onto. Reaching, grasping, vying for those that remain from his reach and keep him pinned. When the sensations so withheld and restrained become too much; he gasps and rights his head forward for one dizzying moment before he thumps it back against the table with a groan.

 

          ‘ _Please, please, mercy! Hel-help me! Please…!’_

 

          His lips move fast and frantic and his tongue feels heavy as his tries to speak. His eyelashes flutter with the same weight, sweet blues unfocused but still trying to lock onto the Knights at his hands. Francel’s hips raise off of the table, the action coming from himself and less driven from the potion, and accentuating his silently spoken plea. His erection was straining against the confines of his soaked underwear but obstructed the view that some of the Knights were beginning to crave to see and have for themselves.

 

_‘Please…’_

 

          Ignasse is still pinning Francel’s wrist to the desk when he leans over Francel to run his tongue over the nipple left bereft of attention by Zephirin. And then, knowing exactly how sensitive the flesh was to all touch; he begins to suck on it and nibble it--he alternates between tongue and teeth. Francel’s body fair begins to sing; his nipples hardened painfully to the touch and by the potion before finally soothed with tongue and lips to merely burn for more. Ignasse leans further forward and over the young lord and brings the front of his long black underpants--and the hardening bulge within--into contact with Francel’s pinned down hand.

          Ser Grinnaux, and Ser Janlenoux seem satisfied with the answer that Francel (and his body) is conveying to them, they loosen their hold on the slender, trembling legs just enough to pull the soaked smallclothes off. Ah! And what a feast Francel is for the Knights’ eyes; wearing nothing but his silly green hat, overwhelmed by the drought-induced, beautiful agony. Their hands quickly return to Francel’s hips, caressing and groping, they pinch at the sensitive inside and underside of his thighs, they trace the soft, light hair below Francel’s naval-circle around his eagerly weeping erection, but they do not so much as accidentally brush against him or touch him at all to Francel’s muted chagrin.

          There are sweet moans and no coherent words from his silenced mouth; save the softened sounds that tumble forth in abundance. Francel is tentative at first too, his hand is hesitant and trembles when clutching softly at the trousers before his hand finally furls around the bulge brought forth to him. His eyes open with a flutter of his long eyelashes, his mouth remains open in distracted awe at the weight of what lay along his palm.

          Still Francel’s penis was standing rigid for attention, pre glistening at the head eagerly. It was stained red, swollen to its limits-his scrotum was tight and heavy between his legs such that he felt fit to burst. Since his legs had been released, he was able to pull his knees in together again, but it was by no means tight, nor truly hiding anything from the Knights.

          The young nobles lips are wet and red and swollen, delicately glistening and parted invitingly. His other pinned hand reaches with fingers angled upward to touch the wrist of whoever pins it.

          Ignasse lifts his mouth off of Francel’s chest for but a moment. “Guerrique, put that hand to good use, the boy’s as eager to give as he is to receive."  
And so Francel’s grasping fingers are led past hastily unlaced frontal trousers so that both hands are now equally occupied-slender fingers meeting heady flesh, his groping hands are clumsy in his haste and need; but the Knights enjoyed seeing the way his lovely brow knit and his nostrils flared almost imperceptibly.

_“Mercy, mercy, please…!”_

        Noudenet holds on to the chain, keeping Francel’s head tilted back; one hand caressing his jawline and ears. Francel responds to those tender touches by turning his face into the caresses. He smiles whence reading the words off those delicate trembling lips.

          “Is it mercy that our little rose wants?” Francel’s lashes flutter low when Ser Noudenet interprets his silenced lips.

 

          Before he could even think to thank the man somehow, the hands groping around his hips give him mercy. Warm fingers are wrapping around Francel’s erection and begin to stroke up and down at a languid pace, teasing the tip with each pass of the strokes. Moan after moan ripples from Francel, and his hips come off the table to try and get closer, to try and get _more._ Another hand dipped down to cup and fondle his sac before going even further beneath to the cleft between Francel’s buttocks; leather gloved hands ensure that the remainders of the potion are spread down there, too. He tries to spread his thighs further apart for the fingers teasing him between his legs; the formula spreading down there brings tears to his eyes for how frustratingly good it felt, for how it was frustratingly not enough.

          Francel’s ankles are set free, and another hand comes to stroke the twitching need newly neglected; though they don’t need to move much for the wanton way Francel’s hips are bucking. For a short time the finger that teased at his anus withdrew to wring more of the slick formula from the discarded smallclothes before returning to the task. With a few prods and a gentle twist-the finger slowly sinks inside, first by itself, then joined by another, curling to ensure their potion found all of the lordlings sweetest spots--and their efforts were rewarded with many of the sweetest croons they have ever heard. Gently the fingers within seem to multiply, spreading the itch deeper and wider and making the lord sigh in bliss. The walls that those careful fingers stroke seem to simultaneously swell and yet the muscles themselves relaxing steadily such that the Knight fingering him could practically feel it as he loosened and stretched Francel’s insides.

          Ignasse and Guerrique no longer limit Francel’s wrists, instead leaning freely over him to grind into his palms and bite and lick along his chest. In turn, Francel’s palms slide up and down the underside of the bulge and slick shaft that grind into his fists. The chain is then handed over to Adelphel who comes around the desk to stand near to Noudenet, he pulls Adelphel’s trousers down just below the hip, freeing his open display of excitement over the scene unfolding before the Knights. Both the chain, and a gentle hand on his cheek guide Francel’s head to turn towards it-Adelphel comes dangerously close to Francel’s face even with his hands clearly occupied. The young lord tilts his cheek into that hand with little reservation.

 

          “Let him be the voice to your pleasure, little rose…” Noudenet purrs softly into Francel’s ear, and then he kisses it greedily.

 

          Francel shudders visibly to be nipped and kissed thus, turning his bleary eyes to the pulsing organ, he seems to think; he likes Ser Noudenet who had twice at the very least helped him to retain some dignity... His eyeslashes flutter at the sight of the engorged penis that remains so close to his face--his breath was humid and sweet over the reddened head. As the Knight’s watched, they wondered if this was where he would stop cooperating--no matter how hard his body shook and spasmed, was this the end of his tether?

          Francel hazily is able to think about how he had not been treated particularly _badly_ by Ser Adelphel, and Noudenet’s soft encouragement had been heard loudly and clearly-Francel quickly finds his mood again. It shows with how he first presses his tongue against the glans, tilts his head more to the side and opens his mouth to suck the head over his waiting tongue and into the hotly tingling orifice. Francel lets a moan escape from around the glans, and then he laps repeatedly the salty tang from the flesh and slides his lips to and fro on the head. Adelphel tilts his head back and smiles in delight to have Francel obey for but a moment before hunching back over Francel and stroking his hallowed cheeks; the roseling having craned his neck forward to slide more of the cock into his mouth and sucking feverently, eliciting an eager groan. Francel cannot help then but to cast a questioningly look up to the radiant blond, eyes full of need badly suppressed behind a veil of embarrassment and aroused shame. Gods be good, he could get off the thought of the scene alone, Francel is actually putting effort into doing his best. Adelphel’s hips roll softly as he does not dare to thrust hard into Francel’s mouth and to risk choking and frightening the boy further.

 

          As Francel demonstrates now that he does not need to be held down as firmly anymore, the knights turn their hands and mouths--the ones not feeling and devouring Francel anyway--unto each other, and more of their clothes begin to come off. Noudenet’s robe is shed as well, and Adelphel returns the chain to him, freeing his hand to play with the prominent bulge in Noudenet’s tights. Both have at least one hand on Francel’s head, and oh, his mouth is so soft and so very eager. The paladin moans quite vocally out in his pleasure, only muffled partially by Haumeric’s mouth suddenly over his own.

Francel is not very aware of what the Knights are doing around him, he is grasping at the wet shafts in his curious hands and his tongue tries new things; swirling and flicking around the head, swishing his tongue side to side over the bottom of it.Adelphel’s voice tells him when he does good and it warms his gut considerably to have them stroke his hair. His hips are somewhat trying to twist on the fingers that begin curling and wiggling deep inside-and when Adelphel begins to thrust--pressing upwards with his tongue is all he can do then as the cock edges deeper into his mouth so that he cannot breath anymore. Adelphel does not last long-cannot last long, the thrusts into Francel’s mouth growing sharper until Adelphel warns him with, **_‘ah! I’m gonna-_ ** ’ and subsequently unloads himself on Francel’s tongue; whose hands jolt on the cocks he holds and his fingers go firm and tight, he whimpers softly as the semen splashes hot over his tongue.

Adelphel pulls out soon enough and Noudenet offers the hem of his robe to Francel’s cheek should the boy want to spit; he does indeed and turns fast after into the fabric that Noudenet gives him and spits up the cum with a small coughing fit. The sight does amuse someone, though-a chuckle that sounds dangerously much like Ser Charibert sounding somewhere lower, and suddenly the fingers inside Francel turn notably hotter.

 

          Francel had just turned his face up to the two (Ser Adelphel and Ser Noudenet) when when he feels the heat. First, Francel’s eyes go wide and his body heaves a great shudder before it comes off of the table. He slams his head back against it with his mouth slack, a broken sob tumbling out as he writhes against the superheated fingers thrusting into him. It added to the deep seated burn within, made the itch within a blaze-an inferno that he clenched and ground against with renewed desperation and surprise.

 

_‘ Oh Gods oh gods, oh plea-’_

 

          Francel has let go of an organ he had been gripping and reached downwards as if he was going to stop what was happening; but he was too late and could not even finish what he mouthed when he was suddenly taken by orgasm.

          Bless that the potion at least let him moan, and it was indeed a sweet moan that shook with his body as he bucked his hips and shook his head-almost in denial of what just happened. The following waves of his sudden powerful climax made his svelt body jolt at every touch and brush, he would twist or arch his chest up until the last drop had spilt over the hand fondling him as well as leaving lines over his creamy stomach. The knights absolutely purr in awe at the sweet sight of Francel de Haillenarte completely undone by his climax. The hand that had stroked his penis withdrew, as did those devilishly heated fingers from inside of him. Someone licked the trail of cum away. Haumeric placed a cold hand under Francel’s head, soothing the spot that hit the desk the hardest-nobody had thought a pillow could’ve come in handy… Haumeric is drawn from his musings.

          “Well, he looks ready for us to get started. It’s one down, eleven to go yet, boy.” Grinnaux;s voice sounds rough and deep with lust. He slipped off the table and kicked his trousers off-but Zephirin motioned for him to stop and shut up.

          “That, dear Bull, depends on our pet roseling.” He leans over Francel, face mere ilms from the boy’s.

          “How would you like it? All of us unloading inside of you, one by one? Does the thought frighten you?” Zephirin smiled as he cooed at the Rose. “Disgust you, perhaps? Or… Excite you?”

          The final pair of words was so close to Francel’s ear he likely felt more breath than he heard words. Zephirin’s words dripped like honey, and Francel seemed to eat it up. His head turned just slightly towards Zephirin where he leaned so near to his face as if he desired nothing more than to nuzzle into the nape of his neck so near to him. The rest of him seemed much more relaxed but for the constant tremors; his legs rested spread on the table and he had pulled his arms to his sides-one was clutching the sheet beneath him somewhat loosely whilst the other arm rested across his smooth stomach.

          “And just for scientific consideration, Francel,’ Haumeric spoke, ‘You are going to feel the growth formula’s effects longer than it would take us…”

          Francel’s eyes went wide at that, fear then begins to coalesce in his eyes as he honed all of his attention in on Haumeric, somewhat slow to process what that meant; he could only bite his lips anxiously as the others watched him hungrily. Their eyes took in his trembling legs, his shoulders were shrugged tightly upwards--he had gone back to being strung taut as a bow knowing he was bare and so needy before them.

 

          Charibert had made sure the potion was saturated deep within him, and Francel doubted that even if he were to pleasure himself to the ends of the world-with the way it tickled and itched he knew he could never satisfy the fire they had lit inside of him. So Francel did the only thing that had seemed to somewhat work for him; he turned to someone he thought ‘safest’, reaching a hand out to Noudenet with a certain insecure expression. Francel’s breath still was coming quick, and his hips were twitching in invitation.

 

_‘Mercy… Have mercy on me…’_

          Then the fire in his lower body reaches back up and strikes his belly-he stiffens suddenly to be filled with lustful yearning so intensely and so soon. Soft sighs roll out from between his rosy lips, he mouths faster and more urgently.

_'Help me, please, please… Deep, it burns, please!’_

          Francel is beginning to quiver again, his thighs pull inwards so he can rub them together for some motion, some sense of friction. It does not ease him at all.

          “Tch, looks like you’ve got yourself an admirer, Noudy. He appears to have taken a liking to you.” Guerrique’s hand slid up Francel’s leg and separated his thighs again and they quake to be hit by cold air as they part. “Sure you’ll share with us?”

          Noudenet leans down to Francel, giving his arm for the boy’s reaching hand to grip, Francel reaches for it and his grip slides up his arm to hold to the point just below his elbow. His breath is warm on Francel’s face on the side that Zephirin did not occupy. And oh, those eyes! Those big, blue, needy and desperate eyes that the boy looked back at him with, pleas for mercy on those sweet lips again. Noudenet caught one of them as Francel tried to murmur it, leaving Guerrique unanswered in favor of brushing his lips against Francel’s.

 

          “It will quench the fire and ease your being.” He spoke low, so low that likely even Zephirin could not completely make out what he was saying. “I know how much you burn and want, I do, and what we want is definitive yes or no before going on…" Noudenet pecks Francel’s lips again to keep him from biting on them any more.

   “...and as we do follow a certain order of command, it’s Zephirin you should give your answer to, not me.”

 

          Ser Guerrique’s hand remained in between Francel’s thighs massaging the inside of his thigh and hip joint and then slipping across from his groin to his hip joint, his fingers trailing lightly over the supple flesh of his waist before sliding downwards to to grope Francel’s rear as well, his hand full of soft malleable flesh that made him hum in approval and squeeze somewhat relentlessly. Francel is silently shuddering and quietly gasping with restraint to have Guerrique’s hands roaming his bare body. It made it so hard to think--

 

          Zephirin intimidated him. That much Francel knew without much coherent thought. Ser Zephirin was the one that ordered for his collaring and was the one that leashed him for the start of his own undoing. The young man turns as the thoughts sift behind his cloudy eyes-his hand slides down Noudenet’s arm before his fingers slip completely away from around his wrist. Francel’s face comes nose to nose with Zephirin when he turns his attention onto him-letting him see what Noudenet has in his eyes; big blues fogged dreamily and searching for comfort and pleasure and begging for help. Francel was too far gone--they had worked his body over into a mess so he would not, nay-- _could not_ say no.

          He raises his hands timidly and they’re trembling when he touches his fingers to his own lips, and then reaches for Zephirin. He dares only to touch their foreheads together that the Knight might feel his laboring pants against his lips. Francel’s fingertips slide down Zephirin’s arms and to his wrists.

 

_‘Please… please, yes. Help me, please..’_

 

          Zephirin’s eyes darken to see the admission. With his mouth curling into a smile, he hooks his finger in the collar’s ring again and greedily claims Francel’s mouth with his own who near drowns as Zephirin asserts his dominance and superiority over the young lord. That mouth is open and waiting for it--pliant, moist and sweet for the taking. He climbs onto the desk and pushes Francel’s thighs further apart, of course sending Guerrique a few paces back so he can settle comfortably between them. Those beautiful milky thighs quaked when propped on either side of Zephirin’s waist. His thick cock is erect and weeping clear pre. Free from the black underclothing, it rubs against Francel’s briefly, whose mouth almost salivates to see the cock Zephirin has lined up with his. Their erections rub together and pull out lovely keening sounds that Zephirin relishes. There are appreciative groans around the table that make the lord's ears twitch and his body burn. A warm hand slips under Francel’s hip and lifts him up enough for Zephirin’s cock to prod and tease Francel’s twitching entrance. Then, Zephirin releases Francel’s lips and frees his gasping and gentle mewls for the world--he looks to Noudenet.

          “Noudenet--something under his head, please.”

          And Noudenet places himself there, he as well kneels on the desk and pulls Francel’s head and shoulders to rest on his thighs, against his torso--he leans his head back in Noudenet’s lap. It was the last thing he had expected... And then as Francel is trapped between the warm, firm bodies of two and under the hungry eyes of ten more, he finds that he cannot breathe for the look in those eyes above him are smoldering. Zephirin then whispers,

 

          “The faithful have none the reason to be afraid.” And he begins to press down and inwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[ Forgive me for taking so long to get another chapter out. Formatting is hard, and I've been stricken by a rather badly inflamed case of sinusitis. This particular part of the story, and onwards-happens to be a favorite section of mine. I have a terrible weak spot for Noudenet and Adelphel. I know, I know... It shows. 
> 
> Please don't forget to read and review. They're more compelling than silence after all.  
> Thank you for taking the time to read my fiction and stay tuned for more.
> 
> -Francel ]]


	3. Or a Charity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honorable Knight Ser Zephirin has plowed and paved a path for the rest of his Knight's to follow.  
> And so, they do.

       Then Francel feels it… the thick head pushing into his swollen anus-breaching the burning ring; his pupils dilate and his feet stress for purchase on the table with his knees pressing into Zephirin’s sides. Francel puts a hand on Zephirin’s chest, he does not push nor pull as he tilts his head back, mouth open in a blissful ‘Oooh!~’. Soon Francel is reaching backwards for Noudenet and grabbing hold of his black tights, his head tossed back into his lap.  
The walls Zephirin slides past squeeze his cock tightly as he labors against them; moist and hot, the young man stretched slowly to accommodate him. He stretched and was slowly filled. Francel’s body was set into one fine arch as he did it, hardened nipples pushed outwards on his chest, and his penis throbbed for them all to see.

        _‘Gods, oh Gods... I-inside, y-you-!’_

       Zephirin begins to move slowly at first with no wait after sheathing within. He does not build up speed or pace-his thrusts instead are deep and thoroughly dominating, each powerful movement hitting Francel just where the potion tingled the most. Zephirin’s eyes are on Francel’s, dark with lust, and his breaths of pleasure come as near hisses between his teeth and slightly parted lips-everything about him conveys pure dominance through every one of Francel’s senses and even his into pores. Francel practically saw stars as his body took in that thick length without even an ache as it should have thanks to that growth formula. Francel hitches his legs higher on Ser Zephirin’s waist, and it tilts his hips to angle more upward so that Zephirin could plunder him more deeply and freely until he is writhing on Noudenet’s lap.

      _‘Yes, yes! Th-there!’_

       The hand on Zephirin’s chest slides over the lines of his fit chest and stomach before folding over to his back; his nails pressed into powerfully flexing muscles. Zephirin reaches for Francel’s wrist and pulls a hand from where it grips onto Noudenet’s black tights; and instead brings it to the bulge in them that is near to his neck. Noudenet lets out a gasp which leads into a groan of pleasure, and he begins to thumb his tights’ waistband lower.  
       At first Francel rubs the parcel that he is guided to; it’s so hard to think when slowly being so thoroughly screwed into the table. Likely using pure muscle memory to help pull that waistband lower so that an eager cock springs out against his jaw. Francel turns as best as he can, and using only his lips and tongue along the side of the shaft; he begins to suckle any part he can reach. Once or twice, the domineering thrusts of the Archemandrite makes Francel get a streak or two of pre-cum along his cheek.  
Rolling his hips and moaning against the cock in his face-he stops gripping Zephirin’s sides with his knees in favor of completely wrapping them tight around him; they’re so slender and long and urge an uncomplaining Zephirin to stay so very deep within. How delicious the young lord's body was-he was all tight heat around Zephirin, limbs wrapping around the commander's body, with actions begging him to keep fucking him and to stay deep inside while his smooth, now bite marked body trembled and arched beneath him. Even though the thrusts shook him not unlike a doll, he lifts himself as best as he can and takes as much of Noudenet’s penis into his mouth as possible. Zephirin licks his lips in delight to be watching Francel eagerly pleasure Noudenet-perhaps kindness towards the boy had earnt Ser Noudenet quite the reward. Every thrust seemed to force his mouth up and down on that cock some--cheeks slightly puffed out from the mouthful which only hollowed out each time he sucks long and hard on him.  
Noudenet has gently cradled Francel’s head in his hands.

       “Ah, yes, very good…” He murmurs with heavy breaths to Francel.

       Before his excitement could grow too close to the edge, Noudenet pulled himself from that breathtakingly wet, and hot mouth. Next, he wrapped the small chain around the base of his shaft to keep Francel from being able to take it wholly into his mouth again. It was Ser Haumeric whom reached then for Noudenet’s hard-on; with his head opposing Francel’s, kissing and licking Noudenet’s length and then occasionally pulling Francel in for heady kisses that contained more or less Noudenet between their lips and tongues. Francel was too wrapped up in pleasure to feel any sense of nervousness about being joined by Haumeric. He moans to be pulled in close for a kiss with a wet penis between their lips. His tongue all too eager to to join Haumeric’s to lap from chain-wrapped base to the reddened tip.  
Witnessing all this proved to be just enough for Ser Zephirin; Francel is pulled downwards and away from the penis as Zephirin leans further over him, his arms are pulled out from beneath him and his body arches to be wracked with hard, sharp thrusts. Ser Zephirin muffles his ecstatic groan of pleasure with teeth in poor Francel’s shoulder as he climaxes, the pain blossoms behind the poor boys widened eyes and he emits a choked sound, but it soon morphs into one of esctasy; hot seed is spilling within and washing Francel’s insides with an exponentially increasing burn against his swollen insides.  
First there is a gasp of surprise directly following; as if he had not believe they truly would unload in him. He has reached downwards like he thought to perhaps do something about it-the mixture of fluids caught his attention and completely dragged all thoughts from his mind. The true intent of the potion revealed; whence mixed with semen, the sensation increases perhaps unbearably so. His surprised outcry is mostly muffled by the ingenious potion, his body writhes and jerks and he coils himself around Zephirin on instinct.

  
       What was this! Oh, how it ached with a vengeance!

       Francel’s dripping bottom seemed like it was now practically sucking on Zephirin’s penis, still lodged within, the muscles surrounding it still spasmed and shivered pleasurably against it. Harsh breathing and moans not unlike pleasure induced agony were all he could vocalize and do with Zephirin’s heavier body holding him firmly down. With so weak a tremble, Francel reaches up, upwards past Zephirin as if he could pull himself away. Reaching for Halone with such shaking fingers.

       ‘It burns! Even m-more...I-inside! Oh, mercy! Please, please! Help me, please! Make it stop, please… It aches so, so much...’

       The Wards captain withdraws; he too, is quite sensitive and Francel feels far, far too good. The Knights all around them smile and hum in adoration as Francel does indeed direct is silent pleas for mercy heavensward, oh how he prays… They are all too familiar with with how his craving and needs grows the more he is given.  
Ser Noudenet caresses Francel’s face and ear, with as many pleas as the young lord had directed him, he is determined to stay close and keep Francel anchored to some feeling of security and mercy, however vague.

       “Do not tally too long picking an order, brothers,’ he says, ‘our little roseling is a fascinating sight, but I would rather not have him suffer overmuch in neglect.”

       Zephirin slips off the table and pulls his smallcloths and tights back up. “Grinnaux? You were quite eager…-”

       “You fucking bet I was.”

       As soon as Grinnaux climbs onto the table, he flips Francel over onto his knees, face and shoulders firmly against Noudenet’s abdomen, the chain still binding him to the knights groin.

       “Well, seeing as our captain has paved a path-” Grinnaux wipes a trickle of of semen trailing down from Francel’s arse and onto his taut ballsac- Francel gives a surprised grunt to be turned over so quickly, disoriented and confused...“All we need is to tread it!”

       With his own authoritative shove, his dark penis plunges into Francel’s raised rear, hot and thick. It goes without saying that it was a rather brutal, punishing pace that Noudenet raises and eyebrow to and braces Francel’s shoulders to avoid his head and neck getting strained from being thrown so hard against him. The young lord cries out against Noudenet’s abdomen. His arms immediately wrap around the knight’s waist to hold on to him tightly.  
Grinnaux’s idea of mercy is no mercy at all, and his calloused palm almost completely envelopes Francel’s penis, stroking in rhythm with with his thrusting, determined to bring the boy to a fast and hard climax again. Each rapid thrust jarred his body, his entrance sucking Grinnaux in and trying to keep him there--only for him to pull away from the writhing, wet walls before plunging back in. Francel’s breath was robbed from his very mouth as he sobbed against Noudenet’s stomach; his thighs quaked with each thrust, his bottom trembled at each slap of flesh on flesh. Francel’s back stretched and curved in a delightful dip as his prick was seized; his voice soared into a frantic pitch. His nails scrambled against Noudenet’s back as his hips thrust into that unforgiving hand of their own accord. Plenty of muffled, ‘Ooh’s’, and sweet ‘Ah, ah, aah’s’ turned to load, frantic, near screams. There was one hand that reached down to grab Grinnaux’s wrist, but he had no strength to stop him. Francel’s mouth moved even if no one was to see…

        _‘Not, n-not agai--…!’_

       His insides spasmed harshly and ground against Grinnaux’s swollen organ-tightening and stiffening like the rest of Francel’s body as it coiled in preparation to climax again. Flowing over, Francel explodes with a shout and another long sob of burning passion, cum litters the sheets as he thrust his hips; back and forth-back onto the solid hard cock, forward into the hand--his moans lilting as his orgasm was ridden from him hard and fast. Francel’s body is shaking and twitching in the aftermath; likely, his body was only held up now by Grinnaux’s cock and his hands on his body, and Noudenet’s hold on his shoulders.  
Ser Grinnaux’s assault does not continue too long-even though it likely felt akin to an eternity to the assaulted. Grinnaux groans and barks to the rythym as he releases Francel’s dick so that he can hold on to those narrow hips instead so as to pound him even harder-if going harder was even possible. When Grinnaux stops, it is only so he can unload himself inside of Francel with a long, open-mouthed and bestial groan. There is more hot cum flooding his swollen walls and washing his insides slick; of course it is stirring in reaction with formula within. Suddenly he gives Francel’s beautifuly round ass an open-palmed smack while he is withdrawing. The slap makes him jolt in shame with the way it makes his bottom tremble for them all to see.

       “If anyone asks where we’ve been, I’m gonna’ say ‘plowing the soil in the rose garden!’” He laughs to say it while beginning to redress. Francel becomes even more shamefaced at Grinnaux’s double-entendre.

       Ser Noudenet unwraps the chain from his groin and lets Francel relax rather bodily into his lap, and he and Ser Haumeric stroke the boys’ face and lips.  
       “Do you have anything that would make this any easier for him?” Noudenet whispers to Haumeric, who shakes his head.

       “He will have to wait for it to wear out.”

       “I see… He will make it, but the rest had best be gentler with him.”

       Francel is not allowed to relax for long as the mixture within him slowly stirs around in his insides and flares to a titillating enferno again. His short reprieve is melting into the agony of searing pleasure and passion. Those hands which touch him so tenderly and with growing affection wring delicate whimpers from him.  
He is shaking unsteadily as he unravels his arms from around Noudenet’s waist; barely able to prop himself up to lean into the Knight’s chest and tilt his head upwards to look imploring at him. He slides a hand over Noudenet’s shoulder and then into his hair to pull him down closer. A bit awkward from the angle, but no less pleasing for it-he kisses him wetly and needily, lapping at the man's lips and then moaning against the tiers.

       ‘I am burning, inside… Please I’m going to.. Going to m-melt…’ His lips move against Noudenet’s as he mouths what he feels. His words are chopped as his head is dizzy with heat and a multitude of sensation. Noudenet pulls the Lord into a supporting embrace with a soft smile into the kiss. So soft, so supple, and oh so needy. He parts his lips, meeting Francel’s timid tongue with his own. Then he glances with half-lidded eyes past the boy and at Ser Ignasse, who moves to embrace Francel from behind, trailing wet kisses over his shoulders. The touch tells Francel that his night is far from over. sandwiching Francel betwixt his chest and Noudenet’s as he guides his cock-long, straight and slender, much as his weapon-to press at Francel’s entrance.

       “Let me demonstrate you my lancework,” he purrs into Francel’s ear before nipping and lapping at it as he enters him.

       First Francel gasps aloud to have his sensitive ears toyed thusly-and then, slowly his back arches and his shoulders pull back as he is entered once again; his head falling back onto Ignasse’s shoulder as the motion pulls him even more upright. The feeling of being full again makes him groan and he presses back with his bottom against Ignasse in earnest. His twitching hole is constricting, squeezing around the long shaft, and it sank in deeply. Francel trembles where he kneels over Noudenet’s lap. His fingers push and drag across soft lines of muscle in the man's skin, eventually pressing against his shoulders blades when his arms come around them and he holds Noudenet tightly to his chest.

       Ignasse gives a much more gentler ride, and Francel is almost completely gone from Ignasse’s expert lancework. There is little to no friction with two loads of cum inside the lord; and Ignasse knows how to hit the most sensitive and wanting of spots with just a gentle rocking of his hips. The hat that the Knight’s so loved to and found amusing had slipped far to the side and askew with his head tipped back onto Ignasse’s shoulder--his cheek and jaw brush against the others side-burns and the faint stubble along the Knight’s jaw; it’s ticklish and a brief smile lights his face before it is washed away for pouting red lips and a titillating moan. The Lancer’s hands wander and caress Francel’s stomach and chest, and he occasionally slips a kiss over his shoulder to Noudenet. That is-whenever they dare to detach their mouths from the succulent treat between them. Francel’s penis had barely softened some after his second climax, but the way Ignasse rolled his hips; stirred the cum deep inside of him so that it stood flush at attention again, sensitive and reddening at every smooth thrust.

       Francel turned his face against the side of the man's head, his chest bubbles up with a low purr as the stubble scratched against his neck and shoulder for every kiss he got. With breathily silent lips, he stammers.

        _‘There, there… Yes, y-yes, it’s good-so good, feels…’_

        He presses back with his lower body, trying to move his body with Ignasse’s-reaching a hand back and pressing at the back of his head to bring the man closer to the succulent treat of his neck and not let him go so easily. His other hand is reaching blindly forward for Noudenet in front of him, his chest is arching outwards for the hands that massaged his potion sensitive chest-the flat lines of muscle along his stomach flutter nervously at wandering hands.  
Alas, Ignasse is not immune to the churning of potion and seed within Francel, either; the sensations are soon heightened beyond his expectation and he finds himself muffling groans against Francel’s shoulder, trying to hold climax back a bit longer. He cannot.

       After adding his contribution to the mixture brewing inside of Francel, Ignasse pulls out. He does not release Francel, however, and pulls him back and away from Ser Noudenet’s lap.

        “I cannot possibly last as long as I need with you here, in my arms. Let Ser Ignasse take care of you for a bit, little Rose.” Noudenet says to Francel in a low purr, and then slips away from him and off of the desk.

       Ser Ignasse’s breath is hot and humid against Francel’s ear, and the Knight’s stubble tickles and prickles his neck, though he finds it somehow pleasing. Ignasse’s strong arms hold the young lord in a tight embrace. Francel willingly leans back into Ignasse and the feeling of iron muscle and powerful arms give the hazed elezen a sense of safety and security. Francel remains still and feels somewhat uncomfortable from the sensation of semen that seems to boil inside of his belly-almost. It brings forth intermittent shudders at the strange feeling of its attempts to leak out and to hold it within--nothing to push it deep. There is three… three full loads…

 

       “Ser Hermenost?” Noudenet calls out to the knight leaning against the wall nearest to them, observing the scene. “You have not as much laid a finger on him, yet.”

       “Aye, I haven’t…’ the dark-skinned knight approaches the table with leisure. “And should you want my share, Francel, you’ve got to show me that you want it. Show me that you want… this.” His trousers are open and down just past his hip, cock standing at attention and his glans dripping, his balls heavy and full…

        The very way Ser Hermenost talks to him strikes through that sense of security-not entirely unpleasant, though humiliating in its wake. And--Francel’s eyes are stuck on the aforementioned engorged organ. Slowly, he lifts his head to look upon the handsome, dark-skinned elezen before him; his gaze is unfocused and attractively clouded with the aftermath of sex and his multiple beautiful climaxes. The result of which has given him a sex-drunken appearance and a throat dry from unsilenced moans and screams.

       Francel’s natural hesitance is short lived, pressing himself back against Ignasse so that he can hold his legs out with his feet braced on the table and his bent knees spread wide. Trailing a hand between his thighs he spreads his buttocks more and showing off to those Knights watching carefully how his entrance twitched, and how swollen pink they had made it. When spread more than what the position naturally does, and a slender finger pressing close to the ring of muscle; seed begins to trickle out slowly and makes the young lord squirm where he was laid out. Francel is still shy and bashful enough to turn partially into Ignasse’s chest but watches dreamily from the corner of his pretty, wet blue eyes.

        _‘Here… I want it here. Please, please, please… It is so hard to bear without you…’_

       Oh, how Francel wished that his words had not been silenced so that the Knights could hear his fervent pleas, and surely harken to him when hearing the extent of his desperation.  
       The dark, handsome knight licks his lips, obviously quite satisfied with the lewd display Francel shows him. There is a predatory look in his eyes as he climbs the the desk and leans over Francel, such that he looks like a beast coming in for the kill. Suddenly, and fully, Francel is acutely aware of how close Ser Hermenost has come to him. His body tunes in completely to the waves of heat that spill over him from their shared space. Ser Ignasse behind him chuckles low at how Francel has pressed back into his chest and keeps his legs spread apart for Hermenost.

       “So, is it here that you want me?” Ser Hemenost croons as he reaches between Francel’s legs with a hand and wiping up a trail that had trickled out, teasing that twitching and swollen hole with his fingers. “Ooh, you would love it, wouldn’t you? All plugged up and filled up, until your belly bloats fat with cum.”

       He lifts Francel’s rear onto his thighs easily, nigh on chuckling himself when pulling Francel down and over his lap causes the boy to huff in surprise--he rubs some of the trickled-out cum over his shaft until it shines like a slick glaze. Francel cannot help himself but to reach out a hand to Ser Hermenost and slide his palm up the hard rivets of his abdomen.

        _‘Put it inside, please. Please, please, please, I want it. I want.. You… I--’_

       Then he presses into him, and that petal soft entrance spreads more than it has thus far in the night. Ser Hermenost is not as long and straight as Ignasse, but he is thick in the middle, thicker than any of the Knight’s that had filled the lordling before him, and as he slims down towards the base, he practically gets sucked in deep. Francel throws back his head as he is inclined to do when taken by such new and overwhelming sensations. Ser Ignasse must hold tighter onto Francel as the lordling writhes on the cock speared into his sweet bottom. Moan after sweetest moan is wrung from trembling tiers by the mere girth his ass squeezes around of its’ own accord.  
What remnants of fluids left on Ser Hermenost’s fingers, he does brings to Francel’s lips with clear expectations. Francel scrambles his hands against anything he might be able to hold onto; one hand comes to press unto Ser Hermenost’s hip so as to keep him close and sheathed within, the other clutches Hermenost’s wrists so his lips may part around the proffered filthy digits.  
       Francel’s tongue first laves at the cum, it’s salty and tangy and nothing he would quite soon forget. Very quickly he has sucked the soiled fingers into his hot and very wet mouth, his tongue glides between the digits, and he uses his teeth gingerly to nibble the tips of Hermenost’s fingers. The young man sucks on those fingers even long after all the cum as been swallowed up.

       “Mmm, hungry are you?”

       Ser Hermenost chuckles when he feels Francel’s teeth. He traps the slick little tongue on its return between his fingers, playing with it, pressing it down so that he can lightly tickle the roof of Francel’s mouth…

       Francel’s insides spasm around his thick cock so much, Hermenost does not hardly have to move, he just rocks his hips slightly as the tight hole practically milks him greedily. Francel whines low in his throat as the thick length grinds slowly inside of him. His body stretches taut with every muscles he has tried to clamp while undulating his body against every of Hermenost’s movements.

       Ignasse reaches for both of Francel’s wrists and pulls them away from anything that the young lord could grasp onto.

       “We should do something about this constant reaching and flailing…” He says.

        When his hands are pulled away from anything he might ground himself with, he whimpers in such a way that makes him sound lost, and he arches out his chest so that his head is tilted more back and the fingers pop out from between his lips. Francel pivots his upper body to press tightly into Ser Ignasse’s chest reaching slightly upward and turning his mouth against the ticklish underside of his jaw.

        _‘Mercy, mercy, please! S-sorry, m’sorry, please…’_

       Neither Knight is a stranger to reading lips, and Hermenost lets out a low, rumbling chuckle. He holds Francel’s hips where they are; properly impaled on his cock. Ser Ignasse pulls back Francel’s upper body onto the table; pinning his hands by the wrists on either side of his head.

       “Now you look like proper prey,” The dark Knight growls before adding power to his thrusts. Francel cries out with wavering softness as his pinned hips are ravaged.

       “You may love us back at a later time,” adds Ignasse, “tonight, just focus on not letting another single trickle out.”

       The widening of his hole over and over so suddenly again makes him arch sharply upwards, and the other growth-touched neglected areas begin to sear anew as blood rushes hotter through his veins at their treatment of him. Such that his head is tilted even further back than his arched back had brought him so that he could gasp desperately for air with his mouth opening wide for every soft cry he utters after each sharp breath.  
The way his anus naturally wrings around every cock put in him is heaven, unable to stop how his very own body reacts; from the way his legs wrap around Ser Hermenost’s waist, to the very way his prick twinges and twitches at every powerful thrust.

        _‘Please, please, pleasepleaseplease!’_

       Sweet blue eyes peeking upwards through his long, wet lashes either at the ceiling, or into pleasure induced, hazy dreams.

        _‘Oh gods, gods…’_

        The two knights smile wickedly at the sight of Francel so pleasure-hazed. Still pinning his wrists, Ignasse bends down to nuzzle and nip at Francel’s ear and jawline.

        “Stay awake, roseling, we aren’t even halfway…” He purrs and dips his tongue into the shell of Francel’s ear.

       Hermanost hooks his hands under Francel’s knees and leans forward for the ear not being devoured by Ignasse. Francel’s body bows in easily and hitches his bottom higher off the table so that Hermenost is reaching even deeper. A long and gutteral growl into Francel’s sensitive ear is all the warning he gets from Hermenost before yet one more load fills him further.

       “Aah-mmngh!”

       Before withdrawing that deliciously thick cock, he gives Francel’s belly a rub to encourage the concoction inside him; and Francel can only moan pathetically as it works.

       Hermenost then moves his hands from behind Francel’s knees, to atop them so that he pins them almost to the boys chest so that he could pull out and ensure nothing would leak out at this angle as he does so.  
The way Francel’s hips are tilted upwards with his knees bending towards his chest make it feel like they were pushing the fluids even higher or deeper in his stomach. He could feel it as it slid warmly through his bottom and burned in its deepening path.

       “So, who is next in line? More love for the little roseling?” Hermenost looks around at the Knight’s around them on or by the table. Ignasse notes how Francel’s prick is softly pulsing with the potions burn again, he can practically feel the sheer need -

       “The little roseling is definitely burning for some more, don't you agree?”

       This does encourages a pair of hands to reach for Francel from the side whilst Francel himself can barely understand what the voices around him are saying. He cries in surprise for the hands that come to touch his body; first playing at the collar’s edge before slipping along his chest to pinch and twist at one painfully hard nipple; Francel becoming distracted as he was by the feeling as though his chest blossoming with fire and his twitching cock would melt soon after those fingers trailed over his shyly fluttering abdomen and trailed a finger over the shaft of his prick laying primly against his belly. It was horrifying as it was intoxicating--his want to be held... His want for more cock inside of his slick and spasming hole…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[ All memorable quote's that make you laugh and that you fall in love with are by my beloved Tuhis. Maybe they be ingrained in you forever more.
> 
> Don't forget to comment and subscribe for more updates to come in the future. Perhaps long in waiting, but they'll come never the less. (just not as quickly as Francel.) Har har har. 
> 
> Please enjoy your upcoming weekend. ]]

**Author's Note:**

> [[ Looks like you made it to the end! (maybe) Don't forget to leave a review and a kudos (we authors live on those ya know) and let me know what you enjoyed most and what you think. I'd appreciate it! 
> 
> The working title has been 'fuck the stupid goddamn fucking hat' and I seriously might make that the actual title... 
> 
> Congrats and I hope you look forward to the next installment! ]]


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